


Lorn

by breathedout



Series: Passchendaele ficlets [11]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, F/F, Grown-up temper tantrums, Imperfect comfort, Jealousy, Mothers and Daughters, Mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law, Parental Death, That awkward moment when you're secretly fucking your brother's wife, Times of trouble do not bring out the best in some people, and you both have to go hang out with your mother, grief and mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathedout/pseuds/breathedout
Summary: Outside Antigonish, Nova Scotia: June, 1916.She must only keep hold on herself through the train ride, she thought; and the carriage ride. The train ride; the carriage ride; and then, as she'd done when a child, she might fly to her Mama and be enfolded.





	Lorn

**Author's Note:**

> The folks over at [femslashficlets](https://femslashficlets.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth are hosting a year-long, 15-ficlet challenge where all the prompts are Janelle Monáe lyrics. I'm using them to create a little cycle of exercises using characters from the three established or hinted-at f/f pairings in the original novel I'm working on. So all of these tiny character studies will be related to one another, and all except three of them will be either Louise/Hazel, Rebecca/Katherine, or Emma/Maisie. Anyone interested in getting to know my characters a little bit as I flesh them out is welcome to follow along!
> 
> This story was written for the prompt "Crown on my head but the world on my shoulder."

The whole way in on the train she'd been— _oh_ it was dreadful, she'd been good for nothing, she'd barely noticed the clothing she'd thrown into her trunks and as for whatever she'd told Cecile to do about the children, she remembered not a word. Presumably at some point the girl would bring them along. It seemed a sensible instruction for Maisie to have given but honestly, _honestly_ , did that make it more likely or less that this morning she'd have done so? In any case she could hardly spare many thoughts for them now. Cecile had come to their household with impeccable references; she really _ought_ to know what to do for the best. And after all Mabel and Dickie and even Georgie had scarcely known their—grandfather, and even Frances and Alice had only seen him twice or thrice a year whereas Maisie—

Maisie had pressed her handkerchief hard to her mouth. Breathed in, and out; then turned to smile at the conductor, coming around for her ticket. She must only keep hold on herself through the train ride, she thought; and the carriage ride. The train ride; the carriage ride; and then, as she'd done when a child, she might fly to her Mama and be enfolded; press her face to her Mama's neck and perhaps be handed a cup of the hot cocoa which she had loved as a child; and she might cup the warm glass in her palms as her Mama wrapped about Maisie's shoulders her warm arm; for despite the girls in their straw hats and their short-sleeved dresses on the train platform Maisie all morning had felt unutterably cold. 

When she arrived, however, her mother's arms were otherwise occupied. Or rather, _un_ occupied, which was—

"You stay put," Emma said, squeezing Maisie's mother's hand. After a moment Maisie saw her mother actually squeeze _back_. "Or—go greet Maisie," Emma added, "while I see to the tea"; rising from the front table where the two of them had been huddled close together, speaking about—what? What might _Emma_ have to say on the subject? How many times had she even met Maisie's Papa? 

Meanwhile: "My dear girl," her mother was saying: rising too, and holding out her arms. It was just as Maisie had envisioned, yet… off-centre. Her mother looked pale, her eyes dark-circled but not red. At least she'd not been crying with Emma, then, during their little tête-à-tête. 

"I see I'm. Anticipated," Maisie said. She could hear the tone in her voice; well. She didn't care. Was glad about it, even. Emma glanced over her shoulder at her, eyebrow up, pouring out a cup of tea. 

She said, "I haven't as far to come." 

"Emma's been taking care of simply everything," said Maisie's mother, with a strange unfamiliar laugh. "Wouldn't hear of me making tea in my own kettle."

Emma came over with the tea, pressing it into Maisie's hands but she wasn't looking at Maisie. Not even a glance at her face; when two weeks before Emma'd turned up at Maisie's front door while Maisie had been chatting perfectly pleasantly with the Reverend and Mrs Sullivan, and Maisie had endured twenty minutes of conversation amongst the four of them before the Sullivans had taken their leave and she could mention with impeccable politeness a bit of Brussels lace that she'd been wanting to show Emma up in her bedroom, taking her by the hand as they climbed the stairs so that the _second_ the door was shut behind them she might press Emma to it, biting at her, filling her mouth with her, dropping to her knees before her with her hands on her hips under Emma's skirts feeling _hungry_ , her mouth flooding over and—and now Emma stood next to Maisie looking only at Maisie's mother. A crease between her eyebrows. 

"Well," Emma said. "I remember how it was for my mother. After my dad—"

"Who _sent_ for you?" Maisie said, and: Emma's deep startled eyes, on hers. "Who exactly _proposed_ that you should—"

" _Maisie_!" her mother said; and: a clunk, of Maisie's tea on the front table. A noise from her throat, she hardly knew; and the rustle of her skirts as she rushed from the room. 

Upstairs, on the old coverlet of crocheted lace, Maisie collapsed face-down and didn't cry. Her Mama would come up, as she always had when Maisie was a child. She could come up, and pet Maisie's hair, and murmur soft clouds of words into her hair until Maisie was herself again. Footsteps on the stairs, it would be her, it would be her, she would hold her—but when Maisie looked up, the woman in the doorway was Emma.

"Maisie," Emma said. Maisie buried her face in fabric again; Emma sighed. Footfalls. Depression of her weight on the old mattress. 

"Clearly they would send word to my home," Emma said. Her voice wasn't gentle. "Paulie is the eldest son."

"And what about—did you even _think_ to see how _I_ was faring, you don't—"

"I knew I would see you _here_ , you utter—what was I meant to do, set out for Halifax when you were—good grief—oh—Maisie": petting her spine, the back of her neck: for Maisie's shoulders had begun to shake. The hot close space between her face and the coverlet was wet and airless and her hands were claws clutching at Emma's too-familiar thighs and she was sobbing.

"I want Rowland," she said. "I don't care, I don't care what you say, I want Rowland, I want my husband, I want—"

"Of course you do," Emma said. "I wouldn't—of course. Of course you do."

"I want my Papa," said Maisie, in a voice so small and choked she didn't recognise it; and then curled up as tight as her corset would let her, boning digging into her flesh, her knees pulled up, her fists in Emma's skirts and her head in Emma's lap as she wept.

**Author's Note:**

> As the war makes this confusing and I couldn't figure a way to make it clear in context in 1000 words: Paul Thompson Sr. dies of a heart attack, on home soil.


End file.
